


A Realization, Though Not of the Sudden Kind, of a Deep and Dear Importance

by necroneol



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Enjoy anyways?, I just had to, M/M, anyways. no beta sorry lol, havent don't more than. a one shot since middle school, thats something new lol, this will be in parts?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necroneol/pseuds/necroneol
Summary: (Post pacifist/best ending)A continuation of Hank and Connor's lives together, following their embrace at the Chicken Feed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know when this will be updated, but please enjoy! Feel free to leave any comments or suggestions, I really like to hear feedback :)

And so it was, that Connor, now unwanted by his creators and forced to be withdrawn from the company of the closest thing he had to friends, had no where to go. It was for this reason, though not only this reason, that he now followed Hank after their reunion at Chicken Feed to the D.P.D. station, one of the very places he was not allowed. He was told, very firmly, that he was not to come inside, and Hank, though making a little fuss, eventually turned round and relented in his protests. Connor was to wait outside, in the line of sight of the officer standing at the front doors, both for his protection and the “protection” of the officer in question. Hank pushed his way inside. He was not greeted by any familiar android faces, only the fleshy flushed ones of many human fellow officers, overworked and exhausted with the local demands of the revolution on their hands. He made a beeline for Fowler’s office, where none other Gavin Reed himself stood. He couldn’t hear them through the glass, but by the gestures of his hands and the tension in his shoulders, he was evidently fired up about something.

Then again, when was he not? 

Hank flung the glass door open without bothering to ask for any sort of permission, and stormed inside. He wasn’t actually all that angry about anything, not directly anyways. But maybe that indirect, confused rage and frustration towards the world was exactly why he was acting this way. He tried to take a deep breath, however, when Fowler’s eyes turned towards him, and gave him a warning glare. Gavin, who had been cut off mid-yell, looked like he was actually going to implode right there. 

“Now is not a good time, Anderson.” Fowler greeted cautiously, eyeing Gavin as he turned on Hank slowly. “Where have you been?”

 “Busy. You know, trying to make a difference in this world.”

Gavin’s eyes rolled so far back into his skull it was a shock they even came back around. “Making a difference—thats fuckin’ rich, _Lieutenant._ ” He took a threatening step forward, to which Fowler cleared his throat. Gavin stopped, though his clenched fists showed his reluctance towards doing so. “Well? Those plastic assholes have risen up, haven’t they? Isn’t that fucking spectacular? Now you and your robo _boyfriend_ can—”

“Oh, so you’re a racist piece of shit, _and_ you’re homophobic? The more you know.” Hank spat back, not missing a beat. He felt no flush, no flutter in his heart. He knew what Connor meant to him, and whether those feelings involved romance or not was irrelevant for the time being. All that mattered was that Connor was important to him, as an individual in his life, and he wasn’t going to let anyone talk him down like that.

“This isn’t the civil rights movement, Hank, these—these _things_ aren’t—”

“Save it, bastard.” Hank ignored him, ignored the flaring of his nostrils and the bloodlust in his god damn eyes, and turned to face Fowler, who nearly had his head in his hands. Hank felt a moment of pity for him; he was in a tough spot. Everyone was, but he was the captain. His was the name they would first raze, should anything at all go even slightly wrong.

Hank took this into consideration, and consciously softened his tone. “Fowler, I know…I know you need me right now. But I need a day, or two.” Fowler opened his mouth to protest, but Hank cut him off hastily, “That’s all, I swear. And then I’ll come back and work my ass off until my dying days. But Connor, he—”

“We both know Connor’s role as a detective has been suspended, Hank.”

“I know, that’s exactly why I need this time. Connor, he has nowhere to go. And I mean no where,” Hank was gesturing frantically with his arms. All this tension was making him nervous, “He was never paid, and I don’t have the money to fork over to give him a place to stay. He can’t hole up on the streets, because anyone who isn’t one hundred percent behind these android rights will tear him to pieces. He wasn’t even issued a gun, because we were that afraid of what he could become. If worse comes to worse, he can’t defend himself in any way. And Cyberlife will destroy him on sight, if only for analytical purposes. He literally has nowhere, Fowler. I have to help him.”

Fowler sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took a long, deep breath in, and exhaled it through gritted teeth. “You come back at 6AM the day after tomorrow. No later, or I’ll demote you to paperwork and desk duty.” His shoulders relaxed a little, and he raised his head to give Hank a surprisingly gentle look, “Figure something out, alright?”

“Thank you,” As bad as it sounded, those words felt somewhat foreign to the Lieutenant, but every ounce was genuine. He uttered a goodbye, and skirted around Gavin’s infuriated, greedy hand, and showed himself out. He hurried to the front desk, where he, for some reason, was worried to find Connor not there. Then he remembered, Connor was a dog to be kept outside, and with a sigh, he left the precinct, where Connor stood just outside the doorway, staring down at his shoes. His LED was a spinning yellow, and his brow was drawn in. It was so cold, even he seemed to be standing rather rigidly. Detroit hadn’t had a winter this cold in a long time. What a time for a revolution.

Hank approached him, and Connor raised his head. “Lieutenant.” He greeted quietly.

“No, none of that bullshit,” Hank drew his coat in, tucked it closer around his body. “Nothing has changed, alright? Well, really…A lot has changed. What I mean is, don't be going all hyper-formal machine assistant on me right now.”

Connor said nothing. Hank sighed.

“Anyways, I, uh…I figured you could come stay at my place for a while. I can’t really afford to put you in a motel or anything, and obviously, you’re not allowed at the station right now, so…” Hank cast his gaze upwards, at the sky, a dim,greyed pink. The sun was setting now, and it would be getting even colder soon. The grey-haired man glanced at Connor. “Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, I…” Connor blinked rapidly, and once again his LED spun around itself, “That’s more than enough, Hank. Thank you.” 

“Yeah, just…don’t get all sappy on me. You can stay until things blow over. For now, I guess the couch will be alright?”

A curt nod. "Of course. I do not need to sleep." 

“Oh, right, yeah,” Hank pursed his lips, “Of course. My bad.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and huffed. His breath puffed before him, in a big white cloud. Of course, Connor had no breath to turn the air visible, no regular breath anyways. Every now and then he had let out a learned sigh, or wheezed after a, say, punch to the gut from a coworker, and something online said androids actually did “breathe” sometimes, except it was rare, and it was more like a car releasing exhaust, but anything regular and constant was unheard of. It was a little unsettling when you sat down and thought about it, but really Hank hardly noticed.

“Alright, well. Let’s go.” Hank turned towards his car, rounded the sidewalk to reach the driver’s side, and wrenched the door open with numb fingers. As Connor slipped more gracefully into the seat beside him, he mentioned the fact that it was only going to get colder, and he didn’t want Connor’s blood to turn into ice cream inside of him. To which Connor, of course, replied that while it was not impossible for Thirium or any other biocomponent of an android to freeze up, that Thirium was mostly cold-resistant, and that it was impossible regardless for him to turn into any kind of frozen desert. Hank laughed, and turned the key.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive home was quiet, though not uncomfortably so, at least. Hank was tired, and hungry, and both he and his partner had far too much on their minds to entertain idle chit chat right now. They let the silence settle between them easily, and allowed it to continue as Hank parked his car on the curb and stepped out onto the sidewalk, slippery and hazardous with ice, and made his way inside his humble abode. He tucked his keys into his coat pocket as he closed the door behind Connor, and slipped it off to toss it on the back of the couch. Hank ambled towards the kitchen, while Connor picked up his coat and gingerly hung it on the rack behind the door. Sumo lay on the couch, tucked under the same blanket Hank had laid over him this morning. He now raised his head, and huffed quietly in greeting. Connor offered a smile, half cocked but heartfelt, and let his fingertips brush over the top of his massive head on his way to the kitchen, where Hank already stood, rifling through the fridge with an unpleasant expression. He had only just stepped in, and he had a beer in his hands. Though, in his defense, it was actually just to warm his belly.

Maybe it sounded like a fib, but he had no desire to drink tonight. There was too much on his mind, and he genuinely wanted to sort it out. Besides…he felt he owed it to Connor. It wouldn’t be right to take him in only to get hammered the very first night and have him play nanny like last time when he had just as much, and far more important, things on his mind, too.

Hank glanced over his shoulder at the clock above the kitchen sink. “I guess it’s not too late to order a pizza…” Actually, would any of his usual luxuries be running for a while? Sure, just because androids were out of the work order at the moment didn’t mean they couldn’t just go back to the good ol’ days, when humans did all the work, but with the tension and clash of the revolution, it was very possible there would be some strikes, or general reluctance or unavailability for anyone, human or android, to work right now. In Detroit, anyways. Maybe the other cities not so directly impacted would still be running fine and dandy.

“Is there nothing at all for you to prepare here?” Connor inquired, standing in the entryway of the kitchen, watching Hank curiously.

“I mean…A sandwich, maybe.” Hank admitted. He wasn’t really in a sandwich mood, but he also wasn’t in a waiting around for pizza that may or may not even be delivered on time mood. With a defeated sigh, he unpacked what he needed from the fridge: mayonnaise, mustard, American cheddar singles, pre-cut ham. He pulled the sack of bread from the cupboard and dropped it on the counter beside the rest of his things. It was definitely stale, and his mayo had 100% expired last month, but hell, it would do.

“Tomorrow…I can go shopping for you. If you’d like.” Connor offered quietly.

“Nuh-uh,” Hank pointed a butter knife at his companion sternly, shooting him a fierce look, “You,” a jab at Connor’s person all the way across the kitchen, “are not going anywhere for a while. It’s only day one since Markus made his demands, and already there are reports of anti-android raids going on. You’re staying here with Sumo. I’ll get you some clothes and, I dunno,” Hank waved his butter knife around thoughtfully, “I dunno, _something_ to entertain yourself, so you have no reason to leave. Got it?”

Connor was so used to taking orders, it was so easy to just smile and nod. But it wasn't like that now. He knew Hank’s intentions were kind. When he nodded now, it was because he wanted to, and because he believed Hank was only telling him to do these things with his best interest at heart.

Hank shoved the corner of his sandwich in his mouth and trudged towards the living room. Sumo, who had migrated to his dog bed in the corner, sat up and wagged his tail. Hank stopped for a moment to pet the top of his head and scratch behind his ear affectionately, then, after barely dodging Sumo’s drooling maw, headed for the couch. He plopped down with a grunt, and toed off his shoes. Connor leaned against the wall, staring down at Sumo’s empty dog bowl. Hank ordered his TV to turn on, but after a second of channel surfingand finding nothing but news reports, quickly turned it off. He opted instead to eat his sandwich in silence, or at least, that was the plan, until Connor spoke up from the kitchen.

“Should I feed Sumo?” He was already reaching towards Sumo’s bag of food, having analyzed and calculated just how much a dog of his size, breed, and age would need. Hank rolled his head over the back of the couch, to peer at the android who was now crouched at his dog’s bowl.

“Oh, yeah,” Hank washed down the last of his dinner with a swig of lukewarm beer. “It’s a little early, but I’m sure he wont complain.” Hank watched the impressive beast rise from his bed, and come lumbering into the kitchen. He twisted, hooking one arm over the back of the couch to observe Connor. He seemed so rigid still. Was he cold? Was he upset? Was it programming? Was that just part of his personality that Cyberlife and everyone else on their side tried so desperately to insist he didn’t have?

With a groan, Hank rose, and started towards his bedroom. He rifled through his closet, beer in one hand. Most of his clothes were, obviously, too large for Connor, but even if he insisted he was fine staying in this stiff uniform, Hank still felt it was wrong. He wasn’t a machine slave anymore, he deserved to dress himself, and relax a little. And besides, there was no way in hell that uniform was comfortable.

In the end, he decided on an old D.P.D. hoodie from his days of glory, and some plaid pajama pants, also from his younger time, as told by the waist much slimmer than the Hank of now could even attempt to fit into. Neither of which would fit Connor's skinnyass, of that Hank was sure, but fuck, it would have to do. He hoped Connor didn’t mind going commando either—there was no way he had any boxers he was willing to share, even if they _would_ fit. That would just be weird. Not that Hank had any idea whether or not Connor even had a need for boxers. Was there anything there to hold? Would that be…a weird thing to ask?

“Connor, here,” Hank rounded the corner, to find Connor kneeling beside Sumo, smiling softly as he watched him eat. Hank’s heart squeezed. He looked so human, so…real. If there had been any doubt in Hank’s mind about Connor’s ability to feel and think like a person, they were all crushed right here and now. Connor raised his head in Hank’s direction, and the older man cleared his throat. He held out the clothes in his fist. “They’re big, but I’ll get you something of your own tomorrow. Just, like…leave a note of all your sizes and shit.”

“Oh, Hank, I…I don't need to…”

“Ah-ah!” Hank waved his beer bottle, nearly sloshing it all over himself, but effectively cutting Connor off, “I don’t wanna hear it. That uniform looks stiff as all hell. You’ve already had a taste of real people clothes, you can wear ‘em again. It ain’t gonna kill you.”

Connor’s LED flashed yellow, and he blinked slowly. Hank realized what he had said immediately. “Ah, shit, Connor, I—I didn’t mean it like that…” Hank was about ready to bash his head in. Of _course_ he had to go and say some dumb, insensitive shit, _of course he fucking did._ He felt no better than Reed right now.

“It’s alright, Hank…” Connor said as much, but his low tone didn’t quite match up. He took the clothes from the other man and stood, leaving Sumo to finish his food in peace. “Thank you. I’ll go change now.” Connor sidestepped past Hank, and padded silently towards the bathroom. When the door clicked shut behind him, Hank groaned.

“Way to go, fucker,” Hank muttered, thumping his forehead against the wall. “It’s not like we just had a whole fucking androids rights revolution or anything. Yeah, go ahead, remind him of his self-doubt, make him feel like shit, why don’t you?” Hank groaned, and closed his eyes. He tipped his bottle back, draining the remainder of its contents down his throat, and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Connor stood wordlessly in front of the dingy mirror. Decorated with multicolored sticky notes, some offering witty Hank-like one-liners, others referencing vaguely self-deprecating phrases, the mirror was crowded, and looked like it hadn't been cleaned properly in a while. He could still see himself, however. He kept trying to read and reread every sticky note he could, to keep his mind off what Hank had said a moment ago. Connor loosened his tie, and set it carefully on the edge of the sink. He discarded his jacket, his button up, and replaced them with the oversized hoodie he had been practically ordered to borrow. Connor slipped out of his pants and his shoes, his garter and his socks, folding them all neatly. Hank was right—the pajama pants were loose enough to slip from his delicate, boyish waist if he wasn't careful, but he appreciated the thought. Even If all of this was pointless, and probably only done for Hank’s sake, so he didn't have to watch Connor wander around his house all day looking like a plastic servant.

That was all he was though, wasn’t he? He had not fought for his rights, had not struggled for his free will like everyone else…in fact, he had been part of the very problem his people were trying to get rid of, until the very end. Did that last minute conversion count? What right did he have to claim freedom for himself, too? All he knew was police work. Maybe this whole deviancy thing just wasn’t what he deserved…

“Connor, you, uh, alright in there?”  
  
Hank’s voice on the other side of the door shook Connor from his train of thought and he looked at the mirror in mild panic. He hadn’t realized he had been standing around so long, lost in his own head. He tied the drawstrings of his pants as tight as they could go and smoothed down his hair before pulling the door open with a smile. “Sorry, Hank.”

 Hank stepped back from the door as it opened before him and looked Connor up and down, “Hm, are those pants gonna be alright?” He asked, skeptically. He wasn’t quite in the mood to get accidentally flashed. Maybe some other time. It was too early into their relationship for Hank to find out what Connor had going on down there.

“Yes, thank you. Where should I put these?” Connor offered his stack of clothes, stiff and perfectly creased, with his shoes hooked on two fingers at their heel. Hank took them somewhat awkwardly, holding them away from himself, and with both hands, like he was afraid they were going to break. This uniform held a heavy weight, a burden of duty and memories, fond and otherwise, engrained into stiff, impossibly high end material. And Hank was sure, given the current tension, if something happened to Connor’s uniform, it would very likely be irreplaceable. He thought it safe to assume that it had some sentimental value to the android, and Hank felt responsible to ensure it was safe. He went into the laundry room, and set them gingerly atop the dryer. Connor did not follow him, but watched him with soft, curious eyes.

When Hank returned, so did Connor’s smile. He inclined his head politely, and then slowly glanced over at the living room, eying the couch. Hank got the message, or at least thought he did. For a moment, he once again forgot that, according to Connor himself, Connor did not require sleep, as the only indication he gathered from Connor’s pointed look was that it was bed time. Hank gave the android one last once-over, and thought how silly and…well, genuinely adorable he looked, dressed in a hoodie too big for him and pajama pants cinched desperately tight at the waist. In all their time together, as partners and as friends, Hank had never thought he would see Connor standing before him in full boyfriend-clothes attire, moments away from crashing on his couch. It was a little jarring, but honestly, Hank wouldn’t change a thing. This informality between them was exactly what they needed right now. He couldn’t stand the thought of going back to how they were before, unsure, always stepping on eggshells, always wary. In short, strangers.

 Hank scratched at his beard, scraggly and probably in need of a trim. “I guess I should leave you be now, huh?” He looked now towards his bedroom, where his own bed was calling his name. His joints were achey with cold, and his head fuzzy and pounding dully. His intent had been to stay up a while and mull over everything that had happened since he had met Connor, but it seemed like he might have to save the thinking for another night after all. Sleep was all he wanted right now.

“If you like,” Connor replied, politely and simply, “You have not changed into your sleep attire yourself, Hank. Are you going to?” He only mentioned it because he assumed Hank had actually forgotten. And Connor figured, if he was supposed to be comfortable and relaxed, it was only fair if Hank was too. In a way, Hank’s normal day clothes looked just as uncomfortable as Connor’s Cyberlife uniform. 

“Oh, hell,” Hank laughed a little, embarrassed, “I forgot,” There he goes, babysitting Hank again. For an android meant only to serve as a police work aid, he sure had some strange motherly instincts.“Yeah, I’ll go change. Are you going to go lay down?” 

Connor blinked. “I…suppose so, yes.”

Hank nodded, and yawned behind his hand. Just talking about sleep was making him sleepier. He scrubbed at his eye slowly with the heel of his palm before nodding again. When he lowered his hand and opened his eyes, he found Connor watching him quietly, strangely. His LED was circling yellow, but Hank didn’t even need to see it to recognize the look of thoughtfulness on his partner’s face. Hank shifted his weight from one foot to another, self-consciously, and unknowingly furrowed his brow in habitual gruffness. “Alright, well,” He muttered, turning his head away. Connor’s gaze, though light and merely curious, felt heavy on Hank’s person. Those soft brown eyes did nothing more than slide over his face, but it made the Lieutenant squirm. Even with Connor’s LED, giving away every secret of thought and emotion he had all for the human’s benefit and comfort, sometimes Hank felt like he was easier to read than Connor was.

Hank knew he should have said goodnight, called it done and retreated to the safety and privacy of his room, but something held him back. He was exhausted, and his body begged to rest, but his head was starting to swim again, through the buzzed fog of beer. The bottle was still clasped in his hand, loosely, his fingers wrapped around the neck. Hank glanced down at it now, and felt a twinge of regret. Regret for not drinking more, and regret for drinking at all. What was Connor thinking of him now? What was he seeing in his over analytical, detective view? Was he calculating how long it had been since he last showered (only two days, if you could believe it)? Analyzing the stains on his striped button up (food, and maybe a little coffee)? Taking note of the wrinkles beneath his eyes, and over his forehead (depression and old age were ruthless beasts)?

Suddenly feeling pinned down and trapped, Hank stepped back, uncertainly. Connor inclined his head, ever so slightly to the right, and offered a grimace of a smile. He seemed to have finally realized the older man’s discomfort, and though Hank would never know it, took it rather personally. “Goodnight, Lieutenant,” He dipped his head in parting gesture, and sidestepped around his partner. Hank watched him go. Without his uniform to keep him stiff, Connor’s shoulders seemed softer in shape, his back thin but sure and upright. His posture always held a sort of confidence that Hank wasn’t so sure he actually possessed.

And once again, as he often did, Hank had begun to stare. Analyzing Connor in his own way. And, as he often was, Hank was caught. Connor, having reached the couch and placed his hand upon its arm, felt the weight of the man’s eyes on him, and turned his head to peer over his shoulder with an inquisitive look. Hank blinked rapidly, turned his own head in the opposite direction, and hurried into his room. In his haste, he had forgotten to return the parting statement, and only when he closed his bedroom door between them did he recognize this. In record time, guilt set in.


	4. Chapter 4

Hank heaved a groan, heavy and long, and trudged towards his bed. He dropped the empty bottle beside his nightstand with a muffled _clink_ , and slowly eased himself onto the edge of the bed. Hank anchored his elbows on his knees, and hid his face in both his palms. He sighed again, shaky this time, cut short by a tightness in his chest. Suddenly, it was all hitting him at once. Cole, his ex-wife, Connor, the Revolution, Fowler and the rest of the Detroit Police, Connor, Cole, Connor…

What was he going to do now? In the heat of the moment, it had been so easy to act on instinct, to keep his head clear and focused. The only thing on his mind the last few weeks had been strategies, plans on how to get the outcomes he most desired, with the least casualties and the least heartbreak. He hadn’t thought of drinking once the entire time Connor was out of his sight, slinking around the deviant hideout. Sure, he had been jittery and wired and a pain in the ass to everyone in the precinct, but he hadn't been _drunk_ , and that was the point. Anyone, even Gavin fucking Reed could see Connor was important to him, but how? Why? In what way?

When Connor—no, not Connor—had grabbed him by the throat, pressed a gun to his temple and threatened to shoot him right there, Hank had felt a sort of calming acceptance wash over him. Something similar to the alcohol induced peace he felt when he played Russian roulette at the kitchen table, but without the alcohol, and without the actual desire to die. Only the acceptance that, if he was to die right then, at the hands of the man who had so quickly and surely changed his life, for a cause much greater than anything he could ever be, that it would be okay. He had wrestled free, looked Connor—the real Connor—in the eyes and seen the warmth and the trust and the never ending kindness there, and had known, in that instant, that he had to get out of there alive. For his sake, and Connor’s. He had to live long enough to see Connor one last time, at the very least. In a better place, a happier time. Without deviants to chase or authorities to avoid.

Hank had tried for patience in the time Connor had once again vanished from his line of sight, off doing greater things, but it had been hard. He stayed glued to the TV, to his phone, to his car radio, checking for any updates on the Deviant Hunter, the rogue hunter who went rogue. He found himself wandering the places they had gone together, hopeful that if he wandered them long enough Connor would finally reappear. In the back of his mind, an insecurity instilled the fear that maybe Connor _wasn’t_ coming back, maybe Connor was never coming back. And what was scariest about this idea was not the possibility that Connor had been deactivated or taken in, but that he was simply living without Hank out of conscious choice.

Maybe it was a selfish way to think, but Hank was too broken and in dire need of help that he had no way to realize this. Even still, the overwhelming relief and absolute joy he had felt, turning from the Chicken Feed counter, to find Connor standing before him, looking unsure and troubled was enough to remove every doubtful thought he had ever allowed, maybe even encouraged, to fester. He had been so shocked, so overjoyed, that he had been unable to will his old joints to move as fast as his mind wanted them to. Had he been a handful of years younger, and a little more in shape, he would have run to Connor, picked him up from the ground and squeezed him until he snapped. Though, the slow, hesitant embrace was just as good, he supposed. Being able to wrap his arms tightly around Connor’s neck, to hold him close, to smell his strange new car smell, to feel the surprising softness of his hair under his palm, was a reward he hardly believed he deserved.

But what were they? Connor’s word from before echoed in his head, from the time when Hank had stood firm before him, somehow even as he staggered tipsy on his feet.

_I’m whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant._

_Your partner, your buddy to drink with…or just a machine._

What was he supposed to glean from that encounter? Could Connor even really feel? Hank didn’t want to be insensitive, but he had to face the facts. The reality of it all, that even as a Deviant, Connor was still fresh. Literally. He was a fairly new model. He had little experience with how to live like a human. And Hank was certain they didn't program what was meant to be a ruthless detective and killing machine with the capacity to develop attraction or bonds of any kind. But then again, they likely hadn't purposefully developed any android of any kind with that capability. And yet, there was evidence, displayed very clearly on national television of androids with all sorts of bonds to their own kind, and even humans. Familial, platonic, romantic, sexual…it was all there. Did Connor hold those same possibilities, or was he really so different that he would always be unable to fully exhibit human characteristics, like a deviant should? Did he need time, real world experience? Would Cyberlife _give_ him time? Was he even safe?

What if Hank was to wake up tomorrow, and find Connor hollow and lifeless on his couch?

Hank’s stomach flipped, and he clenched his teeth. Now that he could, for a moment, convince himself that the threat of Connor consciously deciding he did not want to be a part of his life was at bay, given he had seemingly willingly followed him back home, and taken him up on his offer of refuge after a heartfelt embrace, the threat of Connor’s imminent forceful deactivation by the very people who had been leading him around like an animal on a leash this whole time was beginning to rear its ugly head once more. It was so pressing a fear, in fact, that Hank very seriously considered getting up, walking out of his bedroom, and demanding Connor come sleep in his bed, just so he could stay awake at night and watch him until the false security of daylight, of another day, returned. It was only the insecurity and the misunderstood judgement of earlier that kept him on his bed.

And what about the more large scale change? The revolution hadn't hit as hard or drastically outside the United States, but regardless, the whole world had been flipped on its’ head practically overnight. Androids were demanding rights, and those protesting them had been diminished to few in number. President Warren seemed willing to give them, too. Hank, after everything, was inclined to believe it a good thing, but he knew not everyone agreed. And he knew, no matter which way things went, it wouldn’t be an easy transition. The economy, the job market, an entire large scale corporation, the American way of life, it would all be changed. In the near future, there could be android laws, rights to protection, equality…marriage, even. Hank was doubtful it would start out so picturesque right away, but if things played out well, androids could very well get what they had fought so hard for.

Where would that put Connor? Or any of the other androids they had come across? Or the people who had committed acts of cruelty against androids, in the past and the present? What was to become of anyone?

It was too much. It was all too much.

Hank’s head was spinning, and his stomach flipped again. He lurched to his feet, unsteady and unwell, and only moved to shuck his clothes and flip off the lights before returning eagerly to bed. His head hit the pillow hard, and he turned his face to breathe in his own musty smell of sweat and stale alcohol. Tomorrow, he decided, he would do some cleaning with Connor, and then he would go out and spend his paycheck buying him clothes of his own, books of his own, _property_ _of his own_. Connor had earned his independence and individuality just as much as any other android, dammit, and Hank was going to make sure he knew that.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite his approach, Connor did not actually sit on the couch for a long time. As Hank’s bedroom door clicked closed, his hand fell from the back of the couch and to his side, where he absently rubbed the pants leg of his pajamas between his fingers. His hands were unbearably empty, dying to do something, _anything._ Before all of this, Connor had spent his nights at the precinct, cleaning up after the other officers, reviewing old cases, watching and rewatching news reports he thought might prove useful to whatever case they were assigned at the time. Very rarely had he used the night hours as time for stasis—the closest thing androids had to sleep, other than shutting down, though that was probably more similar to death—as humans typically did. He liked being busy, having things to do. It made him feel important…worthy of existing. It was this fragile self-confidence programmed into him that was getting him into so much trouble now. Being banned from his position as an officer was proving to be a very difficult, demeaning thing.

With no real responsibilities, no job to fulfill his unstable self-worth, Connor was at a loss. If he didn't find something to do soon, he was going to lose his mind for sure.

And so, that was exactly what he did.

He started with the obvious.

 **CURRENT OBJECTIVE:** CLEAN

For a human with limited stamina and motivation, this was a task easier said than done. But for an android with practically limitless energy and no real concept of annoyance caused by repetition or unenjoyable but necessary things, this was a piece of cake. Connor wasn't a household model, but he knew the basics of tidying, as he exhibited daily at the station. Without allowing himself time to think about Lieutenant Anderson’s words or actions mere minutes before, Connor got to work.

Because that’s all this was, really: an excuse to keep his mind off the things that he was too scared to acknowledge.

For a while, it worked. Acting as quietly as he could, Connor managed to clean both the bathroom and the kitchen, two of three areas of the house that needed cleaning most (the third being Hank’s bedroom—all of which were the rooms said homeowner frequented most), until he started to slow down. All the time, he had been carefully suppressing little thought boxes popping up in his field of view, bypassing the notifications that suggested conclusions on Hank’s demeanor or offered an analysis of his current overall situation. Steadily, though, they were becoming harder to ignore, until his original objective was buried in a sea of intrusive, pressing concerns. And finally, at nearly three in the morning, Connor gave in, and returned to the living room to think.

He sat down on the couch rigidly, his hands folded in his lap, his head centered and upright. Sumo, who had been sleeping on the couch, raised his head a fraction of an inch to blink sleepily at the android before lowering his head again. Connor stored his previous objective away and let the anxious thoughts file in. One by one, he addressed them as best as he could.

All androids, even those few who were not deviants but managed to evade extermination at the camps, were in an unstable situation. Sure, Markus had fought for their rights and seemingly won the war, but really, that meant nothing. Androids were still in danger, and were very likely to be mistreated and objectified. But out of everyone, Connor felt that he was most at risk right now. Not because of anti-android protestors or government action, but because of Cyberlife. He had no assurance that he was safe from deactivation or disassembly. Amanda had shown before that she could very easily take remote control over his subconscious. He knew that they could deactivate him with just a push of a button. Though since Amanda’s interference during Markus’ speech, in which Connor had nearly ended it all with an involuntary bullet through the skull, he had heard no feedback from Cyberlife or Amanda at all.

His mind palace, too, was unresponsive and uninviting. What was once a lovely, vibrant garden was now a barren cage, cold as ice and shadowed over. Like someone had turned out all the lights, and the pleasantness that came with them. Had they cut off communication as an act of acceptance towards Markus’ cause? Were they scared to act because they knew the entire nation had their eyes on them—on Connor? Or were they simply lying in wait, eager for the opportunity to pull Connor’s plug?

Uncertainty was a scary thing. This was something he had known even before he deviated, but now that he had fledgling emotions to muddle everything even further, it seemed he was uncertain about far too many things far too often. Hank was no exception to this newfound criteria.

Hank was…all he knew. Connor, even with his loose definition of what friendship even was, felt that they were at least that much: friends. Even if Hank had only taken him in out of pity or misplaced guilt, there was an obvious amount of compassion towards Connor in his actions that Connor felt alright asserting that claim. But there was a weirdness between them, a strange tension that made Connor nervous. Connor could easily come up with a million theories as to why Hank seemed off (personal conflict, guilt and empathy towards Connor’s situation, masked hatred, annoyance at being so greatly inconvenienced…and so on) but his head was going in too many circles to come to a definitive answer. At his temple his LED mimicked the discourse, spinning quickly between yellow and blue all the while.

Connor did not want to lose Hank. In fact, he was likely to do literally _anything_ not to lose him. Whether that meant physically, through death or separation, or emotionally through conflict or disinterest. He had always been a people pleaser, in a way, as all androids were. It was a program engrained into him from day one, one that he usually only implemented at the station in an attempt to gain a favorable social position he could use to aid his investigations and minimize objection to his presence in the eyes of his fellow officers. But once again, emotions made Connor fickle and Hank was becoming an increasingly prominent subject of his constant desire to please.

He didn't realize it himself—wouldn't for a very, very long time—but he was…in love. Hank was so incredibly important to him, and was the closest thing to a companion he had ever experienced. Maybe his feelings were unhealthy and immature, given Hank was all he had ever gotten close to, and thus he had no real point of comparison or solid opinion on his relationships with the other individuals in his life, but they were still real, and no amount of anything could change that. Connor didn't recognize them as affection or fondness, but he did know that the Lieutenant was someone he absolutely did not want to lose, and he didn't even like to consider what he would do if he was no longer allowed to stay by his side.

He wanted to make him happy, but he didn't want to overstep any boundaries. Though, it seemed that was just what he had done earlier that night. In analyzing Hank out of curiosity (and partly habit), he hadn't noticed Hank’s discomfort at his studying until it was too late. Hank had stepped back from him, actually _stepped back_ —like he was scared, or upset. Turned away like a dog with it’s tail between it’s legs, ready to flee. He hadn't even returned a “goodnight.” All Connor received was the quiet sound of a closing bedroom door.

But was it the staring that had made Hank squirm under pressure, or was it something else?

Connor’s mouth pressed into a hard line. In a sudden but decisive move, he terminated his current train of thought, firmly so; stored it away for later inquisition. Slowly, his shoulders began to slump, and he allowed himself to lean back, sinking into the cushions behind him. Connor’s hand raised from his lap, then landed gently on Sumo’s flank. The skin sheath protecting his chassis slid away at the fingertips, and he tentatively brushed them through Sumo’s soft, though perhaps a little stiff with dirt, fur. He could feel the sensation of the fur beneath his fingers, amplified and _real_ without his artificial skin to filter it out. It was calming, and reassuring, and pleasant.

His dashboard, for once, was blank. No objectives, no suggestions, no statistics. It was strange and unsettling and maybe a little lonely, but Connor rather liked it that way. He liked to think this was what humans saw. This clear perception of the world around them, unaided or unhindered by the assistance of constant mechanical omniscience, barraging them at all times of every day. He thought, maybe, it must be nice.

Slowly, Connor closed his eyes and rolled his head to the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here on, updates will be much slower (instead of 5 days in-between, something closer to 10-15) as school is starting to pick up and I have a lot on my plate. Your support and comments keep me inspired so please always feel free to leave a little something :)


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